The moon watched in silence.
High atop a dead hill, in the shell of a long-forgotten auditorium, a broken piano sat beneath a shattered skylight. Moonlight poured through the cracked glass, painting silver across the dust-covered stage.
And there he was.
A man.
Sitting calmly.
Fingers dancing over chipped ivory keys.
The melody—Für Elise—flowed gently into the night. Each note echoing through the decaying hall like a lullaby for the dead.
He wore black. A long coat, stained in old blood. His hair was wet from the rain. His boots left muddy prints on the stage.
But his expression... was peace.
Too peaceful.
Because tonight... was judgment night.
The doors burst open.
One by one, shadows entered the auditorium—killers. Assassins. Legends.
Men and women trained to erase armies. Each one carried a grudge. Each one carried a weapon. Each one wanted the same thing.
His head.
"YOU BASTARD!" one screamed, cocking a rifle.
Another spat on the floor. "You betrayed us! You killed our own!"
A third drew a knife with shaking hands. "You were our brother… and you butchered us!"
They formed a circle around him on the stage.
But he didn't stop playing.
His fingers moved with ghostly precision.
Moonlight kissed his face—calm, cold, beautiful, and empty.
He looked up at them. Finally.
No fear.
No guilt.
Just silence.
Karma glanced at the shattered roof, moonlight spilling in.
He smirked.
"Full moon, huh…"
Then chaos.
The first assassin lunged.
Too slow.
In one smooth motion, the man at the piano turned, grabbed a broken piano string, and snapped it around his attacker's neck.
One twist. One jerk. Snap.
The body dropped. Still twitching.
The others screamed—and charged.
Guns fired. Blades flashed. Chairs shattered. Dust exploded into the air.
But he moved like a ghost. Like time bent around him.
One kicked toward his ribs—he grabbed the leg, spun, used the momentum to hurl the attacker into a row of seats.
Another fired a shotgun—he dove, twisted midair, flung a splintered chair leg into the barrel—BOOM!—the gun backfired.
A blade grazed his shoulder.
His eyes darkened.
He bit down on the assassin's wrist, tore flesh, dropped low, spun the man over his back—CRACK.
Every movement was precise. Ruthless. Beautiful.
They came to kill him...
But he was death itself.
Minutes passed.
Then silence.
He stood alone, breathing steady, blood dripping from his sleeves.
Ten assassins lay broken across the theater.
One crawled toward the exit.
He walked over.
The killer looked up, blood in his mouth. "W-who... what are you?"
The man paused.
Then, with a calm voice, said:
"Me? I'm just a ghost the moon forgot to bury."
And walked into the rain.
---
The hill beneath the auditorium was steep. Muddy. Treacherous.
But he walked, barefoot.
And as the rain struck his face, he finally heard something louder than the thunder—his own thoughts.
"Is this what I was born for?"
"Did God create me... just for this?"
"Demolition. Destruction. Death."
He looked down at his hands, trembling.
So precise. So brutal. So deadly.
"Or... am I just using what the gods gave me?"
"Am I cursed to take life... or was that my choice?"
He kept walking, head low.
Lightning cracked behind him.
The pain in his skull pounded harder.
Memories flickered—faces he couldn't name, screams he didn't remember causing.
"I don't even know who I am anymore."
"And I don't know what the point of living is... if this is all I'll ever be."
He reached the base of the hill, stepping onto the dark, silent highway.
And then—headlights.
A horn.
A woman's scream.
CRASH.
"The Blood Moon doesn't kill because it wants to.
It kills... because it doesn't know how to stop."